In the Quiet Time
by The Treacle Tart
Summary: I think we are all who we are supposed to be, be it a war hero or a herbologist. We all have our place and our purpose. It doesn't matter that Voldemort chose you or not you are Harry Potter and you would always be Harry Potter. NevilleHarry


**In the Quiet Time**

It began with a flower— an orchid to be precise.

It was a new breed that Neville cultivated himself after three years of extensive study, cross pollination, and praying. He was looking for a way to combine the medicinal powers of Hibiscus sabdariffa, Jasminum grandiflorum, and Viola odorata— all of which have been used in healing for centuries. He added several types of orchids as well, primarily because for some reason they seemed to withstand the experiments better than other species, but also because they produced such beautiful specimens, and Neville liked the idea of bringing something beautiful into the world. When he was done he had created a blossom with petals that glowed yellow and orange with a shock of red on the tips. Its sweet fragrance was that of a bloom picked fresh from a rain forest and not that of one bred in a small greenhouse on the Scottish countryside. Its petals were tapered at the base and flared at the ends, and they felt like brushed velvet to the touch. Neville Longbottom wasn't much of a painter but he felt like an artist, and this flower was his greatest masterpiece.

It was a warm June day when he brought a cutting to Ward 49 at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies. In his anxious hands he carried one lone potted orchid that sat beneath a glass dome specially designed to always remain the appropriate temperature. He quietly stood for a moment at the doorway to a room he had visited many times prior, peering into a small window before he crossed the threshold; it always took a few minutes before he was ready to enter the room.

The scene before him was a familiar one. His father sat at a table with a nurse. While she read to him from the morning paper, he rocked back and forth slowly in his seat, listening to her soft voice as she read about the latest in Quidditch brooms and how a woman in Bristol taught her dog to fly a broomstick. The nurse was careful to ignore any news of the current war or any mention of casualties; it was probably the calmest Neville had ever seen his father. Across the room, and all alone, stood his mother. Though it seemed impossible she looked thinner, her hair was now completely gray and the dark circles under her eyes made her look bruised. She stood by the window, looking out to the grounds below with one hand resting on the glass pane.

"Master Neville," the nurse called out. "Welcome." Nurse Webb had been with the Longbottoms for as long as Neville could remember. When he was younger she used to sneak treats in to his pockets when Gran wasn't looking and told him stories about Graphorn slayers and castles made of ice. She had a kindly face shaped like a broad heart, and wide-set brown eyes, and she always made these visits easy…or as easy as they could be.

"Hullo Nurse Webb."

"What have you got there?" she asked, motioning towards the parcel in Neville's hands.

"A gift," he replied softly. "For mother."

Nurse Webb tilted her chin toward the window where Alice Longbottom stood gazing outside. Neville gave her a small nod in reply and walked over to his mother.

"Hullo…Mum," he said awkwardly. "I have something for you." When she didn't turn Neville reached out and put a hesitant hand on her shoulder. "Mum, please."

At his touch she turned. Her thin face and sunken eyes looked upon Neville and he could have sworn for an instant, for one fleeting instant, he saw recognition there. It made his throat tighten and his eyes began to water. He awkwardly thrust the flower forward. "I made it," he said shyly.

His mother blinked a few times before looking down at the blossom under the glass dome. She stared at it, titling her head to the left and the right, examining it like a child watching a ladybug crawl across the ground for the first time. She lifted a small hand toward it and touched the glass just as she had been touching the windowpane a moment earlier and then, so very slowly, the most remarkable thing happened— she smiled. For the first time in Neville's memory there was a sign of something, some emotion on his mother's face. For the first time since he could remember she looked…happy. And he was the cause. Later that day, well after dark, he went home, and in the quiet of his bedroom, he wept.

Neville named his creation the Joyous Alice Orchid.

A few weeks later Neville returned to St. Mungo's, and in the courtyard just outside his mother's window, he began to plant a garden. The Joyous Alice could never survive in an outdoor garden, but Neville knew of a hundred other flowers that could and he planted all of them: asters, peonies, snapdragons, verbena, zinnias, honeysuckle, dahlias, lilies, hollyhocks. He carefully planned where each flower was planted; which species could be near each other and which had to be far apart, where the sun would fall at certain times of the day, which colors would compliment each other. It had to be perfect.

The world was an ugly place; he could see it in the face of every over-worked Healer, in the eyes of every exhausted Auror, in the stooped gait of every worried parent. He sat powerlessly waiting for updates and news and hoping against hope that he didn't recognize the names in the paper. But there, right there, in that small patch of earth, Neville could forget about that and just do this one thing, this one thing in hopes of nothing more than to see his mother smile one more time. With that garden he could bring beauty to an otherwise ugly world.

Neville spent most days cultivating herbs and plants for curative tonics and salves, and occasionally for other, more specialized potions that, while they were aiding in the current war effort, he didn't really want to think about much. During the days when he could, and some days when he shouldn't have but he did anyway, Neville came to St. Mungo's to tend to his garden. He began spending so much time there that Nurse Webb set up a cot for him so that he could catch up on some sleep.

It was nearly two years after he started his garden, while he was planting crocus bulbs, that they brought in Harry Potter.

The war was over.

Word about what happened to Harry didn't actually come out until about three days after he was admitted. There was one last battle in which several people— a secret group started by Dumbledore during the first war— faced off against the Death Eaters. Apparently, it occurred while Hermione was performing a ritual on a bunch of items: a locket, a sword, a goblet, and some other such stuff. Neville didn't pay attention to the details. The people who were supposed to win, won. All the Death Eaters fell with Voldemort. There were many deaths and many names he recognized. The minutiae mattered little.

There was, of course, Harry, who mattered a lot. Harry, who was currently laying in a bed in a private wing not talking to anyone. He was the one that eventually brought down Voldemort, as everyone knew he would, but how he did it was a mystery. Stories quickly began to circulate. Some told epic sagas of long battles and violent dueling. Others claimed he killed all the Death Eaters at once with a mighty spell. Some claimed Harry broke Voldemort by just using his mind. The only thing Neville was sure about was that no one knew the whole story. He doubted that even Harry, himself, knew.

Neville wanted desperately to see Harry, but with the steady stream of people in and out of the hospital it proved difficult. When Harry was moved to his own private wing, Neville wasn't sure he would ever get the chance.

It had been nearly four years since he last saw Harry, not since their sixth year at Hogwarts. As far as Neville knew, neither Harry, Ron, nor Hermione ever went back to Hogwarts after Dumbledore's funeral. Sometimes he wished he hadn't either. There was no laughter in the Great Hall, no Quidditch on the pitch, no late nights in the common room. The classrooms were half empty as many students went into hiding. There were chaperones to and from all classes and strict curfews that no one even considered breaking. There was a stone silence every time an owl delivered a post. There was fear. There was doubt. There was mistrust. Most of all there was a blanket of mourning and sorrow that covered everything like a heavy mist that left his skin cold.

It was a very lonely year.

Oddly, it was also his best year at Hogwarts. With the reduced class size and no real distractions Neville could concentrate on his lessons. He threw himself into his studies with a zeal he didn't know he had, and often went looking for extra work to keep himself occupied. Without the presence of his most feared professor, Neville excelled. He got top marks in all his classes for the first time in his life. Headmistress McGonagall was bursting with pride, his Gran cried, and Neville could care less.

It was the haunting memory of that year that finally gave Neville the courage to visit Harry nearly two months after he was admitted. He gained access to the closed off wing with the help of Nurse Webb and soon found himself staring into a small window. Hermione Granger sat at a table, her wild hair tied back at the nape of her neck and a book opened before her. She looked so much older than he remembered. There were dark circles under her eyes and a lean cut to her jaw. Ron Weasley stood by the wall beside her. His hair was close-cropped and there were thin scars covering the bit of forearm that peaked out from under the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt and another longer scar on his face. He looked older as well. But it was more than just their looking older that struck Neville. They were old. They looked as if they had aged ten years and made Neville feel like a child by just being in their presence.

His eyes traveled across the room slowly until they came upon a figure sitting in a chair by a window. Neville gasped when he realized it was Harry. Like Ron and Hermione, there was an obvious maturing, not just of his features but of his essence. His hair looked about the same, perhaps a bit longer, and he still wore glasses, but that was about all that remained of Neville's friend. He looked much longer; Neville couldn't tell how tall he'd become because he was sitting, but he looked bigger. Broader too. And like Hermione and Ron, he looked tired and worn.

Neville watched them for some time, grateful not to be noticed. He wasn't really ready to face all three of them at once. For the time being he was happy just to see his old schoolmates. Neville watched as Hermione read passages from her book aloud and as Ron read Quidditch scores from the day's paper. All the while Harry was unresponsive and sat quietly staring out the window. The scene became all too familiar for Neville and suddenly he didn't feel so much like standing there anymore. Instead he went outside to tend to his garden.

It was several hours later, while he was putting some equipment away, that he heard his name begin shouted from across the courtyard.

"Neville, Neville!" Hermione yelled as she ran toward him. Before Neville knew it a pair of surprisingly strong arms were encircling him and a wet cheek was pressed to his. "It really is you. They said you were here but I didn't believe it. I was scared to believe it, but here you are and you look wonderful."

"Let the man breathe, Hermione." Ron Weasley walked over behind them and put a hand on Neville's shoulder. "Good to see ya, mate."

"It's good to see you, too. Both of you." Neville was at a loss for words. He felt odd having seen them just hours earlier, a bit guilty for spying on a rather private moment. "How are you doing?"

Ron shrugged. "All right I suppose. Just adjusting to the real world and all."

"How are you?" Hermione asked.

She seemed to really want to know, or to not want to talk about how she and Ron were 'adjusting to the real world and all.' Neville couldn't tell which. "I'm all right, I reckon. My life's been pretty quiet compared to yours."

"Did you do this?" she asked, motioning towards the garden, which by this point was three times the size he had originally intended.

"Yeah," he said timidly. "It's a pet project of mine. I figured the people who came deserved to see something pretty from their window."

"It's unbelievable, Neville."

She seemed so happy. It brightened her dark face and made her look a bit like the girl who tried to help him Transfigure a thimble into a goblet. Neville reached down and began putting together a bouquet. "Here," he said after he amassed a large bundle. "Take them home and come back and take as many as you want."

"Thank you," she said, somewhat slowly, as she leaned in and inhaled deeply. "They're perfect."

"Neville, we've got to run," Ron said, sounding apologetic. "We've got to get to a Ministry hearing. We'll be back tomorrow. If you're around maybe was can grab a bite or something."

"I'd like that." Ron shook his hand and Hermione gave him another bone-crushing hug and they turned to walk away. They had only taken a few steps when Neville shouted, "How's Harry?"

They both turned back and gave each other quick glances before replying to Neville.

"Not so great," Hermione said in a low voice. "He won't talk to anyone and when he does he's almost…violent."

"He just needs time," Ron seemed to say to Hermione as much as to Neville. "We all do."

They spoke really briefly about Harry's withdrawal, adding that his mood shifted from sullen to angry to indifferent within seconds of each other. They were both at a loss on how to help him. Neville only nodded and reminded them that they had bureaucrats waiting for them. With another quick hug they were gone.

Neville stared after them as they disappeared behind the hospital and shook his head slowly. Of course, Harry is sullen and angry and indifferent, he thought almost bemusedly, what else could he be after all that's happened? With that thought playing around in his head, Neville began to pick flowers.

Using a glass beaker he got from Nurse Webb as a vase, Neville once again made his way to the private wing. With a deep breath he gave a quick knock before he turned the latch and entered the room. Harry, who was sitting on his bed absentmindedly staring at his hands, looked up and froze in stunned silence.

"Hiya, Harry," he said with a small smile. Harry just continued to stare at him, his eyes a bit buggy and his mouth open. Neville almost laughed at the reaction but understood it. It must have been the same expression he had when he first looked into the room earlier that day.

Neville walked over to the table beside Harry's bed and placed the flowers down. "I thought you might like these. They are from the garden outside your window. I began planting it a few years ago. If you look to the far right you can see it."

Neville figured Harry was tired of people asking him how he was doing or how he was feeling, so instead of bombarding Harry with questions he probably wouldn't answer anyway, he began talking. Neville told Harry of that last year at Hogwarts and of his own small but prosperous greenhouse. He spoke in detail about the Joyous Alice orchid and his growing garden. He told Harry of his plans to build a path through the garden and place benches there so that people could walk among the flowers and sit on sunny days. Neville didn't realize he had so much to say.

Harry didn't reply. In fact, he didn't say a single word. After the shock of seeing Neville wore off he leaned back and placed his head on a pillow and just listened to Neville speak. After a couple of hours he quietly drifted off to sleep. Once Neville was certain that Harry was out cold he walked over and pulled the blankets up high to Harry's chin. He was happy to notice that Harry's peaceful face held a bit of a smile.

The next afternoon, while he was repotting some cuttings at his greenhouse, Neville had a visitor.

"Nice place you've got here." Neville looked up to see Ron Weasley leaning against the doorjamb.

"It's all right," Neville said with a smile. He stood up and began to wipe his hands on his apron. "It's really good to see you again. Can I get you something?"

Ron gave a quick shake of his head. "Thanks but no, I don't have a lot of time." He paused for a moment before continuing. "I…I just wanted to ask you…did you visit Harry last night?"

Neville's smile faltered slightly. "Why do you ask?"

"There was a bunch of flowers by his bed that looked like the ones you gave to Hermione."

Neville nodded slowly. "Yeah, that was me," he admitted. "Is that a problem?"

"No." Ron shook his head emphatically. "Not at all. It…it's just…Harry was better today."

Neville looked at Ron in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean he was better. He seemed to get some real sleep and he was…calmer." There was a look of relief in his eyes that Neville liked. He had the feeling it was a long time since Ron felt that. "What did you say to him?" Ron asked with a little bit of awe in his voice.

"Not much," Neville said with a shrug. "I just talked about me and what I've been up to. This place and my garden. My work. He didn't really seem interested; he didn't speak at all. He just listened and fell asleep."

Ron waited a long minute before answering. "He's been having such a hard time of it. He seems so lost. Half the time I wonder if he even remembers who I am or if I've done something to upset him. Today he was…he was almost…he was better. Better than I've seen him in ages." He looked pointedly at Neville. "Do you know that other than Hermione and me, and a couple of nurses, you're the only person he's let in that room?"

Neville's eyes went wide. "I thought he got a lot of visitors."

"He does but they never make it through the door." Ron's shoulders dropped slightly. "You should come by again," he said.

"I will. The first chance I get."

"You should go now. Tonight. Just…soon." He was nearly pleading. "You seem to be the only thing that's had any effect."

Ron's eyes looked hopeful and that made Neville a bit uneasy. "I'll gladly come, you know I'd do anything for Harry, but I can't promise that it will make a difference. I'm not… "

"Neville, you're a friend and right now I think Harry needs that more than anything else."

Neville knew what Ron wanted. He also knew that he couldn't deliver it. Ron wanted something that no one could give him. Still Neville hated to disappoint anyone. "I'll come by tonight."

Neville didn't need Nurse Webb to sneak him in this time; word was left at the front desk to "escort Mr. Longbottom to Harry's room the second he stepped foot in St. Mungo's."

Neville got to Harry's room to find his friend sitting at a table picking at some food.

"Does it taste as horrible at it looks?"

Harry looked up and his face seemed to relax when he saw it was Neville.

"I've brought you something else," he said. "I thought I'd have a harder time sneaking it in, but they were so keen on getting me in here that they didn't even bother to check." He poured out the contents of a bag onto the table and out spilled an assortment of Chocolate Frogs and Fizzing Whizzbees, Ice Mice and Licorice Wands, Pepper Imps and Peppermint Toads. "I seem to remember you had a fondness for these once."

Harry's eyes scanned the contents of the table for several minutes. "Hermione'd kill you if she knew," he said, his voice coarse and low.

"Ron would understand," Neville replied, his heart somewhere in his throat; he had forgotten what Harry sounded like and that voice, so foreign and so familiar, warmed him. He didn't recall ever feeling warm in St. Mungo's before.

Neither said much else that night. They simply ate an ungodly amount of sweets and compared Chocolate Frog cards. Once again Neville stayed until Harry had fallen asleep.

Ron visited him again early the next day.

"Neville, I could kiss you."

Neville looked up from where he was planting seedlings and smiled. "I gather he's had another good day?"

"Other than an upset stomach from eating half a ton of sweets – Hermione isn't too pleased with you by the way – he's doing well." Ron's eyes seemed to sparkle. "He made a joke today."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Ron said, seeming to hardly believe it himself. "I don't know what you do but you make him better. What did you talk about yesterday?"

"We didn't talk much at all, we just ate really. Mostly I just kept him company."

Ron nodded as Neville spoke. "You'll come again," he said suddenly. "You'll come again."

Neville stared at Ron's aged face and the glimmer of youth that seemed to jump out whenever he spoke of Harry's progress. "You know I will."

Neville worked the rest of the day at his greenhouse and the garden at the hospital, with one quick errand in between.

"You don't have to keep bringing me things," Harry said later that night, as Neville gave him half a dozen books.

Neville just smiled at him. "I'd be bored if I had to stay here all day. I thought these might help pass the time."

"Thanks," Harry said as he slowly looked through the books Neville had brought. "I went to your garden this morning."

"Did you now?"

"I didn't know…" he began softly, but his voice quickly trailed off.

"Didn't know?" Neville asked, a bit concerned at the look on Harry's face.

"The colors," he whispered. "I'd forgotten the world could have so many colors."

Neville gave him a small smile. "It's supposed to."

"I don't remember," he said sadly. "I don't remember ….before."

They were both silent for a moment before Neville spoke up. "I remember before and I can't think of anything really worth remembering. Gran used to say that there was no use in the past anyhow. It's gone and done with. All you can do is learn your lesson and move on. I always thought that was a pretty good rule to live by."

"How is your Gran?" Harry asked as he sat back onto the bed against a pile of pillows.

"She died about a year ago."

Harry's eyes went dark. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks, but there's no need to be. She was old and tired and it was time. She went pretty peacefully actually. Neither one of us could have asked for anything more."

Harry went silent again. Neville began to wonder if perhaps he said something wrong.

"It could have been you," Harry said suddenly.

"What?"

Harry squirmed uncomfortably in his bed. "The whole 'boy who lived' thing. It could have been you. I found out years ago but I never told you. I was afraid…"

"I knew," Neville interrupted.

Harry sat up in his bed. "You what? You knew?"

"Gran told me. Towards the end we talked a lot and she told me…she told me lots of things actually. She thought that was the real reason why my parents were attacked—to get to me."

Harry got very quiet so Neville continued talking. "I found her crying one night, alone in her room. She'd been bed ridden for months, unable to walk much further than to the bathroom. I thought she was just upset at her condition so I went to comfort her. That's when she began to apologize to me. She felt guilty, you see, because she was so hard on me my whole life. In her own way she thought she was protecting me by making sure I didn't turn into the kind of wizard that Voldemort might think of as a threat. Who would bother with someone who was half a Squib at best. She felt that I was…safer, that she was keeping me safe. Then that last year of school she saw how well I did, how well I could have done all along." Neville shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure she ever forgave herself."

"Did you?" Harry asked.

"Did I what?"

"Forgive her."

"There's nothing to forgive. None of it mattered."

By this point Harry was lying back down on the mound of pillows, his eyes half lidded and his face paler than when Neville came in. "You don't think it would have made a difference?"

Neville lifted his chin and straightened his back. "I think we are all who we are supposed to be, be it a war hero or a herbologist. We all have our place and our purpose. It doesn't matter that Voldemort chose you or not; you are Harry Potter and you would always be Harry Potter."

Neville didn't bother to start working the next morning. Instead he sat at his kitchen table, drank some warm milk with honey, and waited for Ron.

"Neville," a voice called from out back.

"I'm up here Ron," he answered.

"What happened yesterday?" he asked before he was even through the door.

"What do you mean?"

Ron sat in the chair across from him and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "He's quiet today. He won't talk. Did you have a fight or something?"

"No."

Ron seemed to wait for more of an answer but none was forthcoming. "Well, what did happen then?"

Neville took a sip of his milk before answering. "We just talked the same as we did the times before then."

"What did you talk about?"

Neville sighed and looked pitiably upon his friend. "Ron, this has nothing to do with what he and I talk about. It has to do with Harry trying to figure some things out for himself— and that is going to take time. Nothing will be better overnight. It doesn't work like that."

Ron's head fell forward onto his cupped hands. After several minutes he looked up. His eyes were very red. "He was doing so well. You were helping him."

"I can't bring him back, Ron," Neville said slowly.

"What—"

"Look, I know you want the old Harry back, but that Harry doesn't exist anymore. He's been gone for a long time. If you really want to help him, stop trying to get Harry to be this person he can never be again and help him figure out who he is now. After the war. After Voldemort. In the quiet time."

"I just….I …" He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "How do I do that?"

"Just be his friend, Ron. That's all he needs right now."

Neville didn't go see Harry that night. Instead he visited his parents. It had been too long since his last visit and something told him that they needed him that night.

Neville sat with them as his father lay in bed and his mother looked out her window towards the garden that filled the courtyard. Without really understanding why, Neville began to talk, much like he did when he visited Harry several nights earlier. He spoke of his life and his work. Of his garden. He told them of his fears and his hopes like he supposed many children did with their parents. He shared his thoughts and his most private secrets. He told them that he loved them and that he never blamed them. He told them that he was happy because he felt they should know that.

That night Neville woke from a dream and he knew…he knew…

"My father died last night," he said as he entered Harry's room well after the sun had gone down. Harry, who had been sitting in bed reading a book that Neville had left him, sat up.

"Last night I dreamed of Dumbledore," Neville began. "He was sitting having tea and cookies with a man who I thought I knew. It was my father but he looked….he looked different. Younger, maybe. Happy. He was smiling. He looked as I always thought that he…should look."

Neville sat on the edge of the bed next to Harry. "I hardly knew who he was, Harry. Most of my life he was this painful memory I got to relive every time I visited this place. I spent a lifetime wondering what other sons did with their fathers. Did they play sports, or got on outings? Did they stay up late together? Did they talk Quidditch all day long? Did they have secrets that they shared with no one else?"

He turned to face Harry. "Did you, Harry? Did you think of those things too?" He gave a mirthless laugh. "And yet another thing we share. We were both raised without our fathers. You without so much as a memory to lean upon, and me, full of memories that only break my heart."

Neville raised a hand to his face to find it wet. He pulled his hand away and stared down at the tears that covered it. "The one thing I did have was this little bit of hope that I held onto no matter what the experts said. Now that's gone too. So I find myself mourning a father I never had and a wish I should never have been stupid enough to hope for."

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Neville turned to look at Harry, who seemed as if he was about to say something. Neville couldn't bear it. He couldn't listen to one more word of pity or kindness. Not from anyone, but especially not from Harry. He didn't want to hear anything; he didn't want Harry to say anything. He needed to stop Harry from saying something. Without warning, Neville lurched forward and clumsily pressed his lips to Harry's. He clasped Harry's arms and held him in place while he kissed him brusquely. And when he realized what he had done, and with whom he had done it, Neville released Harry and quickly fled the room.

Neville didn't work in his greenhouse that next day, nor did he work on his garden. He locked his doors and kept the lights down and tried his very best not to think of anything. With the next sunrise came the memorial service for his father.

His mother wore new black robes with gold and silver embroidery on the trim. Her grey hair was combed tightly around her head and sat in a bun at the nape of her neck. Nurse Webb brought his mother down to the service and sat with her, whispering to her softly as she gently stroked her back. Neville sat on the other side, his hands neatly folded on his lap. He didn't want to be there, sitting there, while people passed and muttered condolences. He would much rather have been in the back somewhere, hidden among the mass of floral arrangements, away from the sympathetic glances and pitying tones. Better still, he would have preferred to be home, in the quiet stillness of his bedroom, in the quiet comfort of his solitude.

Neville saw many familiar faces in the crowd that had gathered to pay their respects. Faces he didn't know or that he thought he'd never see again: schoolmates and professors, friends of his parents, coworkers, relatives, and a few people Neville suspected that knew neither him nor his parents but who attended these sort of things as a type of catharsis, or penance perhaps. Were he not dying on the inside he might have found the whole thing fascinating.

After the speeches were made and the rituals completed he saw his mother back to her room and sat with her. She seemed confused and uneasy in the room that had been her home for almost two decades. He tried to talk to her but he didn't know what to say. He tried to comfort her but had no idea what to do. Instead, he did what he thought she might do were she trying to comfort him: he told her a story.

"There once was a boy who lived in a great castle all by himself," he began softly. "Every day he built a great fire in the hearth for warmth and he spent most of his time sitting in its light and dreaming. He dreamed of swirling around white-capped mountains on his broomstick, of diving in an infinite sea and swimming with mermaids, of flying across the world on an enchanted carpet. He had so many adventures that he never considered leaving his castle or his spot in front of the fire.

"Then one day the fire died and the great castle grew cold and dark. The boy was left alone in this vast stillness; the broomstick no longer flew, the sea went dry, and the carpet just sat idly on the floor. The boy continued to live there for years.

"Then, as suddenly as it went out, the fire came back, and from its red-orange flames out walked another boy. 'Take my hand,' he said, 'and walk with me through the fire and to the other side. We will find adventure there. We will find laughter. We will find joy. We will find it together.'

"To leave his castle forever was to leave the only home he knew and to leave behind everything and walk into the fire without anything more than the promise of possibility. But he had grown used to the cold and the dark, and he wasn't sure he could live in the light anymore."

Neville stopped his story when he saw that his mother had fallen asleep. He walked over to her and brought her blanket up to her chin and tucked her in snugly. Before he left he placed a soft kiss on her forehead and said goodnight.

He quietly walked to the door and with one last look at his mother, he latched the door behind him and walked out. Neville paused to rest his forehead against the cold metal door and let the end of the day wash over him.

"How does it end?"

He turned quickly to see Harry walk out of the shadows of the corridor and over to him. "How does it end?" he repeated.

"I…I don't know really," he said through his dry mouth. "I…I was making it up as I went along."

Harry and Neville stood in the hallway, staring at each other for several moments. "I'm sorry about your dad," Harry said, finally breaking the silence. "You didn't give me a chance to say that the other night."

Neville felt his face turn red. "Look Harry, I'm really sorry about that. I don't know…"

Harry held a hand up. "Stop, Neville. I'm not mad or anything." He smiled warmly. "Well, maybe a little mad that you left so suddenly. I would have liked you to stay a few minutes longer."

"You would have…what?"

Harry laughed. "Let's go for a walk," he said as he held out his hand. "Let's find out how the story ends."

Neville looked down at the hand being offered and up into Harry's face, and with just the slightest of hesitation he took it. He had been in the dark and the cold long enough and it was time to walk into the fire.

_Finis_


End file.
